tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6137146742652097882018-03-06T10:34:15.765-08:00No method, Just Madnesssometimes. other times the exact opposite. but at all times, unabashedly mine.La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-89061397622309078412007-05-03T06:00:00.000-07:002007-05-03T08:06:30.387-07:00Pssssssssssssst!!!!<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >[Whispered:] Hey guys. Over here. Shhhh. I don't want Blogger to hear. He's kind of sensitive these days, what with all the exporting and stuff he's been forced to do. I don't want to aggrivate him any further. But, that being said...<br /><br />I’m happy to announce that nearly all the bruising and edema, caused by the recent html-based operations going on back here, has finally resolved.<span style=""> </span>(Unfortunately, there’s still some chafing.)<span style=""> </span>To celebrate, I’ve baked you all a triple crème brie with some brown sugar and pinenuts on top and set it out with some nice crackers.<span style=""> </span>And there’s champagne!<span style=""> </span>So, without further adieu, <a href="http://lacubanagringa.com/">come on over to check out my new do and my new digs!<span style=""> </span></a><br /><br />Please adjust your links to the new location:<span style=""> </span><a href="http://lacubanagringa.com/">lacubanagringa.com</a></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-64902949060645091892007-05-02T07:15:00.000-07:002007-05-02T07:29:36.208-07:00Perhaps just a little high-dose Ibuprofen will do...<span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:12;" ><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">Just to keep you informed, Blog and I are doing well in the post-anesthesia care unit. Surgery went well…but we’re still a bit hazy from all the nipping and tucking and htmling…and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready for us to take the bandages off quite yet. Shouldn’t be too much longer, though. In the meantime, we’ll carry on with business as usual around here until the big reveal. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">And for my loyal seven readers, be prepared to change web addresses for this here No Method, Just Madness is movin’ to a new house! Exciting times! Will definitely keep you in the loop! </span><br /></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-55321192324837187012007-05-02T07:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:53.559-08:00The Family Jewels<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Daddio’s nuptuals are quickly approaching.<span style=""> </span>He and La Italiana want a small, humble wedding.<span style=""> </span>And to help add that extra personal touch, The Brit and I are going to contribute.<span style=""> </span>He’ll be the wedding photographer (he did a great job at one of my good friends’ weddings in Mexico) and I’ll be making the bride’s bouquet.<span style=""> </span>I’m also in charge of decorating the banister to the staircase down which La Italiana will be making her fashionably late appearance. Me, faux tafetta and tool are about to become deeply involved like we've never been before. (Well, except for that one halloween where I was <span style="font-style: italic;">Like</span> A Virgin.)</span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />In any event, Daddio sent me an email the other day regarding our large, extended family, some of whom I last met when I was a child:<span style=""> </span><br /></span><blockquote><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Dear Daughter - </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:9;" ><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><br /><br />I don't know if I told you this, but my aunt Amelia, her husband, Raynaldo, and my cousin Tuto will be joining us at the wedding. I wanted to send you a picture of Amelia so that you would recognize her in case I didn't get a chance to introduce you first.<br /></span></span><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:9;" ><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">She is a rather demure and plain looking person as you will see by her picture.<br /><br />Love, Dad </span></span></blockquote><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:9;" ><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><br />Then he attached the following photo:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjifCCmBlPI/AAAAAAAAALw/MdRV2k-dS1U/s1600-h/Aunt+Amelia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjifCCmBlPI/AAAAAAAAALw/MdRV2k-dS1U/s320/Aunt+Amelia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059969038755665138" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:9;" ><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">To which I replied:<br /><blockquote>Daddio -<br /><br />It’s quite clear to whom we can attribute the swell looks in the family.<br /><br />I can’t wait to tuck myself into one of her inviting wrinkles and take a drag off of her cigar.<br /><br />Love,<br />LCG</blockquote></span><span style=""> </span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-5883549548043524542007-04-30T12:00:00.000-07:002007-04-30T20:09:45.122-07:00Hopefully we won' t have much post-op pain<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Keep your eyes peeled for upcoming changes on this site.<span style=""> </span>With help from my very engineery and technologically superior Gringito Mio, my blog is going under the knife.<span style=""> </span>In celebration of our six month blogiversary, Blog and I decided she’d get a brow lift and a jowl tuck.<span style=""> </span>I rallied for the liposuction, but Blog here thought that having a big ass builds character…so she vetoed the idea.<span style=""> </span>Gawd, she can be <span style="font-style: italic;">such </span>a bitch.<span style=""><br /><br /></span>In all seriousness, there are some serious html shenanigans and hullabaloo goings on back here behind the curtain.<span style=""> </span>And, if we press all the right keys, we’ll have a new look and even a new, exciting masthead…with a real life picture of an identifiable part of my person!!<span style=""> </span>For those of you who follow along here regularly (and I think there are seven of you now), you’re probably thinking that part might be my ass.<span style=""> </span>You’re mistaken.<span style=""> </span>(Though not mistaken for thinking I actually considered it!)<span style=""> </span>(I did.) (But even I have standards of decency.) (Ha!)<br /><br />Keep your fingers crossed that we don’t somehow manage to html ourselves a big, red, blinking delete button!</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-76858905194978711242007-04-30T06:00:00.000-07:002007-04-30T07:07:25.958-07:00Jetlagged? Or just the usual tomfoolery?<span style=";font-family:&quot;;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:arial;">We were stopped at a red light when a slightly disheveled woman crossed the street using the crosswalk just in front of my car. She looked to be young, mid-thirties maybe, and was carrying a tattered, balled-up, wooly blanket. It struck me as odd because she was carrying it much in the same way one might carry a swaddled infant, or a full porcelain punch bowl, across a room. <br /><br />“Hmm, that looks a bit peculiar, don’t you think?” <br /><br />The Brit brought his head forward off of the headrest in my front passenger seat and opened one eye to look, first at me and then at the woman. Having just arrived back from his two-week business trip the day before, his body was still on China time. <br /><br />“What do you suppose she’s carrying in there? A baby?” <br /><br />He opened his other eye. “Hmm. That…or maybe a small dog. [Pause.] Or a great big bunch of vegetables.”</span> </span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-73472829435496371282007-04-28T09:00:00.000-07:002007-04-28T12:31:11.393-07:00Cigarettes & Alcohol<span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >No one was coming for his heart or his liver, and it was clear why. No sooner had we taken a scalpel to the skin over his abdomen…my attending starting down by the pubis while I started from up under the xiphoid…we met at the navel…we got through the even poorer protoplasm below it and entered into his peritoneum to find a belly full of ascites fluid. His bowels, thin, pale and filled with air and succus, bobbed up to the surface of the yellow fluid. I placed a suction device deep into his abdomen and watched as the fluid drained out, much like it would from a bathtub with the drain pulled. Liters were drained and what remained were the sad contents of his jaundiced abdomen. The now visible liver did not glisten as expected, and it certainly wasn’t its usual color. It was cobblestoned and knobby, cirrhotic, tortured by this man’s very close and very daily relationship with alcohol. No. We wouldn’t be touching that. Or his pancreas, which was nearly calcified through and through likely from several bouts of alcoholic pancreatitis. His blood vessels, conduits which should be smooth and elastic, were crunchy...hardened by his slavery to cigarettes. Attempts to cannulate them revealed rinds and rinds of yellow, cheesy, calcified atheroschlerotic plaque, filling in the lumen, obstructing blood flow. It was a wonder this man’s legs were getting any blood at all.<br /><br />We were only there for his kidneys. Kidneys that were risky to take, having come from someone in such poor shape. Kidneys that someone in a nearby state desperately needed. Kidneys that this man’s wife had graciously signed the consent form to donate despite the grief she must have been feeling after loosing a husband who, just three weeks prior, had decided to give up both cigarettes and alcohol. A hypertensive hemorrhagic stroke robbed him of his chance to try out his new life. He was only 51.<br /><br />Far too young if you ask me.</span><span style=""><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span> </span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-34976736609480359712007-04-26T23:00:00.000-07:002007-04-27T01:04:06.190-07:00I'll try to get through this without throwing up a third time<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Get your barf bags ready for the second installment of Teenage Turmoil…<br /><blockquote style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153); font-style: italic;">March 22, 1991<span style=""><br /><br /></span>Dear Diary -<br /><br />Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH!!!!<span style=""> </span>You will <u>never</u> believe what happened today at school.<span style=""> </span>Before I tell you, I have to say it was the best day I have had since the beginning of this quarter!</blockquote><span style=""> </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Consider that, prior to this, my best day ever was the day I got a new pair of pink and white British Knight sneakers, that should put things into perspective for you.</span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Anyways, I’ll tell you now.<span style=""> </span>Oooh, I’m getting butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it.<span style=""> </span>Ok.<span style=""> </span>Let me calm down...</blockquote><br />God help me if I ever have a daughter who doesn’t go straight from 8 years of age to 24.<span style=""> </span>Because if I have to deal with this kind of silliness, I fear there will be a lot of eye rolling and vomiting.<span style=""> </span>On my part.<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Alright.<span style=""> </span>At the way beginning of the school day when I first walked into school, this little short kid came up to ask me if I would go out with Peter. </blockquote><span style=""> </span><br />Yep…this is back when boys knew how to really charm a lady.<span style=""> </span>They’d send a messenger.<span style=""> </span>Or, alternatively, pass a note in class that said:<span style=""><br /></span><blockquote>Do you like me?<span style=""><br /></span><span style=""></span> Yes<span style=""> </span><span style=""><br /></span> No<br />Hope so.<br />Love, Peter<br /><span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />The men of my age group today could really learn from the 13 year olds of my past.<span style=""> </span>They were truly well versed at the art of wooing.<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">And I said “Why, did he ask you to ask me?”<span style=""> </span>And he said yes.<span style=""> </span>Then I said “Well, if he really wanted to go out with me he would ask me himself.”<span style=""> </span>So then the boy said ok and then left and I went to my first and second period.<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />Nice.<span style=""> </span>Check me OUT! <span style=""> </span>I was girly (and vomitously so) back then, but at least I had balls.<span style=""> </span>Or, descended ovaries, rather.<span style=""> </span>Whatever.<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Then, during the break, I was so nervous and I didn’t know what to say if he asked me so Miss Legs For Miles and I and Heidi went walking around.<span style=""> </span>Then we arrived at the lockers just as the bell rang.<span style=""> </span>So that was a relief.<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""><br /></span>I know, ‘cause PHEW!<span style=""> </span>I might have, like, totally passed out or whatever if he’d actually asked me out.<span style=""> </span>Totally.<span style=""> </span>Like, for real. <span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Then we went to English.<span style=""> </span>(Oh and by the way during break Shauna pulled me aside and said “I wanted to tell you this before you found it out the wrong way from someone else.<span style=""> </span>I went up to Peter and asked him if he was going to ask you out and he said he was.<span style=""> </span>And I said ‘Good, because I want to be there when she rejects you.’<span style=""> </span>I meant to say ‘IF she rejects you.’<span style=""> </span>I’m sorry!<span style=""> </span>Because now he’s mad.”)<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />Eww.<span style=""> </span>I just threw up in my mouth a little from how sooo 90210, The Early Years this is.<span style=""> </span>Gawd!<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Ok, anyways, Paul looked mad and I have English with him so that was kind of bad.<span style=""> </span>I had such a bad stomach ache.<span style=""> </span>But I lived.<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />Ya don’t say.<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Then next came math.<span style=""> </span>And I have that class with him too.<span style=""> </span>In that class (Shauna is in it too) Shauna apologized to Peter about saying that.<span style=""> </span>And he still looked mad.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Lunch was next.<span style=""> </span>I went to my locker and met everyone there then we all went to the lunch area and…ate!<span style=""> </span>Then when we all finished, we went to the PE area because there was a basketball game between the teachers and students.<span style=""> </span>But when we got there and we’d already watched part of the game I had to go to the bathroom.<span style=""> </span>So Miss LFM, Heidi and I departed from the group and went to the “little girls room.”<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><span style=""></span><br />Ahh yes…the Must Pee In A Pack Syndrome.<span style=""> </span>I remember this. It is widely known in the scientific community that the females' adolescent urethral sphincter can only be coaxed into relaxation, so as to allow micturition, while in the presence of at least two other female friends.<span style=""> </span>Something occurs in the early twenties…oh, I don’t know, something called Growing Up, that eradicates this Syndrome.<span style=""> </span><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Then since lunch was almost over and I wanted to go find Paul because I wanted to tell him that I didn’t tell Shauna to say that we went to the lockers.<span style=""> </span>And as usual he was there with all his friends.<span style=""> </span>So I said “Peter, I didn’t want or tell Shauna to say what she said.”<span style=""> </span>And he said “Oh that’s okay don’t worry about it.”<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />Among the many things that make me want to hurl about this embarrassingly long play-by-play of the faux mating rituals I participated in as an adolescent, is the pure disdain I seemed to have had at the time for proper punctuation.<span style=""> </span>Dude, seriously.<span style=""> </span>Where are the commas?<span style=""> </span>(I’m sure that when I’m re-reading this blog when I’m 80, I’ll be like, “Dude.<span style=""> </span>What's with all the sentence fragments?”)<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153); font-style: italic;">So then the bell rang and Shauna and Lana showed up.<span style=""> </span>And ofcourse they were asking Peter if he was going to ask me out.<span style=""> </span>And I didn’t hear him all the way but I think he said something like “The girl hates me.”<span style=""> </span>And Shauna and Lana were saying “No, no, she told us she was seriously considering it.”<span style=""> </span>And Peter didn’t say anything, he just kept nodding or something like that.<span style=""> </span>So I just turned around and said “Yes, I am considering it!”<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""><br /></span>[Leans over to barf in emesis basin strategically placed an arms length away in anticipation of the nausea this diary entry would elicit.]<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">And Peter looked at me kind of shocked and said “You…you are?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />So I smiled and then took my books out of the locker and put them in my book bag.<span style=""> </span>Then I was just standing there waiting for Shauna who was still pestering Peter (we had next period together so that’s why I was waiting).<span style=""> </span>So then finally Paul just looked at me and said “Will you go out with me?”<span style=""> </span>And I said “Let me think about it over the weekend ok?”<span style=""> </span>And he said “Ok.”<span style=""> </span>And then we went to our separate classes.<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""><br /></span>Let me think about it?<span style=""> </span>After all that, after all the build up and the butterflies and the barfing (oh, wait, that was just now, not then), I said Let Me Think About It???<span style=""> </span>What a dweeb.<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">Then at the end of the day he waited up for me and we walked to the bus together (but we ride separate buses).<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />So it was a short walk.<span style=""> </span>Regardless, I’m sure, in my adolescent peabrain, I’d already decided I wanted to have twelve of his <s>blue</s> green eyed babies by the end of it.<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153); font-style: italic;">Exciting day wasn’t it?<span style=""> </span>I think the answer I’m going to give him is quite obvious, don’t you?<span style=""> </span></blockquote><span style=""></span><br />[Barfs again. Then dry heaves for a while.]</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-75868593126747773292007-04-25T22:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:54.058-08:00I don't have children yet...<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >…so you, my dear fortunate five readers, get to hear about my plants.<span style=""><br /><br /></span>I’ve always loved plants.<span style=""> </span>They’re not unlike babies in that they’re pretty and they thrive on little more than fluids.<span style=""> </span>Unlike babies, though, they don’t cry, they don’t chap your nipples, they don’t poo, and they photosynthesize.<span style=""> </span>Which is handy.<span style=""> </span>I haven’t reviewed my plant biology in a while, but I’m fairly certain that, in addition to converting CO<sub>2</sub>, they also convert the noxious methane gases that are expelled in our household into sweet, sweet oxygen.<span style=""> </span>Bonus!<span style=""> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />I’ve recently taken an interest in succulents.<span style=""> </span>Mostly because they are flawlessly symmetrical, captivatingly beautiful, and incredibly low maintenance.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjA0NSmBlMI/AAAAAAAAALY/Vmd4XmWOAa0/s1600-h/succulent1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjA0NSmBlMI/AAAAAAAAALY/Vmd4XmWOAa0/s400/succulent1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057599784471336130" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjA0NimBlNI/AAAAAAAAALg/3fPcgEVugY8/s1600-h/succulent2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjA0NimBlNI/AAAAAAAAALg/3fPcgEVugY8/s400/succulent2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057599788766303442" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >But also because the word "succulent" is such an enjoyable word to say out loud.<span style=""> </span>Say it with me…<br /><br />Succulent.<span style=""> </span><br />Succulent.<span style=""> </span><br />Succulent.<span style=""> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Kinda feels like you’re saying something naughty.<span style=""> </span>But you’re not!<span style=""> </span>(Bonus!!)<span style=""><br /><br />The word "succulent" is gettin' so much play in my house right now...it's all "Check my succulents out!" here and "Wanna touch my succulents?" there and there's even a little bit of...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My succulents bring all the boys to the yard, and they're like...it's better than yours...damn right, it's better than yours...I could teach you, but I'd have to charge...</span><br /></span><br />Okay.<span style=""> </span>I’ll shut up already.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />(Succulent.)</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjA0NimBlOI/AAAAAAAAALo/zHt8mXcy1wc/s1600-h/succulent3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RjA0NimBlOI/AAAAAAAAALo/zHt8mXcy1wc/s400/succulent3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057599788766303458" border="0" /></a>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-20797278950247751132007-04-24T23:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:54.209-08:00Apparently I’m a glass 95% empty kinda gal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/Ri7z0ymBlLI/AAAAAAAAALQ/F_o4WTIS9HI/s1600-h/half+empty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/Ri7z0ymBlLI/AAAAAAAAALQ/F_o4WTIS9HI/s320/half+empty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5057247519843652786" border="0" /></a><span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >N</span></span><span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ever to be underestimated is my consistent ability to hone in on that which could potentially be spilled.<br /><br />Within the last 48 hours, I’ve managed to…<br /><br />…empty the very red, and very carpet-staining contents of an entire glass of wine onto the carpet in my bedroom.<br />…topple over a freshly opened bottle of beer, also onto the carpet in my bedroom (though, sadly, not in the same location as the red wine…that might have actually helped dilute out the cabernet).<br />…drain my travel mug of nearly every last drop of my morning green tea into the small compartment in my car that holds my various hospital ID badges, assorted pens, my pager, and a few old triple A batteries.<br /><br />And I was sober for every single deluge.<br /><br />I think I missed my calling as the fourth of the Three Stooges. Either that, or I am just not cut out to be an optimist.<br /></span><span style=""><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span> </span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-61289536993613486042007-04-23T18:29:00.000-07:002007-04-24T05:22:32.161-07:00Supporting evidence for the argument that I have bad wazoo karma<span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >There are two people who I don’t particularly enjoy visiting. One is the dentist and the other is the gynecologist. This has largely to do with the fact that the dentist tends to stick cold, metal instruments into my mouth and the gynecologist tends to stick cold, metal instruments into my wazoo.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><sup style="font-family: arial;">1</sup></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > If I had to rank how I’d prefer to spend my time, spending it with either of these two individuals would go right under performing a trapeze act while suspended from fish hooks looped through my eyelids…which, incidentally, I haven’t tried yet, but only because I’ve been a bit busy. I hear it’s a total rush.<br /><br />The only reason I bring this up is because I had to visit the gyno last week for an annual exam. Apparently, there were many a ladyfolk in stirrups that morning, as there was a bit of a wait for the doc. And as I lay there reclined on the cold, disinfected (I hope!) exam table, naked except for a remarkably large paper napkin, I looked back on all of my gynecologic experiences over the last decade. As luck should have it, all of my gynos have been almost exclusively men. And not for any particular reason other than they always seem to have more </span></span><span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >appointments</span></span><span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > available. Which is not surprising…women tend to want to see women for matters of the snatch. Me? I’m simply not that discriminating.<br /><br />It’s a wonder, though, that I’m not…especially when one considers my very first experience with a male gynecologist. It still goes down in history as one of my most embarrassing moments ever. I was 19 and similarly reclined on a similar table in a similar exam room with the same Eau D’disinfectant. The paper napkin was much, much smaller, though. (Lucky for me, so was my ass.) I don’t think I breathed during the entire exam. The resulting cerebral hypoxia, coupled with the vivid images conjured by my gynecologist’s lengthy explanation of how he thought we should shove a few trocars into my abdomen to laparascopically diagnose the endometriosis he thought I had, culminated in me passing out. I came to with the paper napkin having flopped completely open (rendering me completely exposed) with my right upper and lower extremities dangling limply over the side of the exam table (crotch facing my gyno’s direct line of sight), with the nurse shoving smelling salts up my nose. They might have presented me with the Award for the Patient With The Most Theatrically Impressive Nude Syncopal Episode had I ever gone back to claim it. I didn’t. Ever.<br /><br />For several years after that, just for the sake of convenience, I went to the gynecologist who my mother worked for as a nurse. At first, I thought it might not be the wisest idea, given that my mother would have easy access to my medical records. I was sure she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to take a peak into my sex life. So I repeatedly assured Dr. Williams that when I went out hooking on Friday nights, and then on to my sex show at Whips, Chains &amp; Trapezes on Saturday nights, I’d always use protection…he nodded, unphased, and noted it in my medical chart for her reading pleasure.<br /><br />Then, I started residency. And, again, for the sake of convenience, I thought it best to just go see a gynecologist who worked in the clinic building adjacent to the hospital where I worked. That way, I could just pop over in between OR cases. This seemed like a good idea at the time. It ceased to be a good idea about six months after the appointment, when I was scrubbed in on a complicated colon cancer case. We called an intraoperative OB/GYN consult for some input on a rather suspicious looking ovarian lesion on the patient who’s colon cancer we were resecting. And who scrubs in but the very gyno who ventured down into my nether regions just six months before! This would have been fine, except he kept looking at me from across the OR table. After about five minutes of curious glances, he finally said, “You look extremely familiar…have I met you somewhere before?” My general surgery attending peered up from the fungating colonic lesion in his hands and, despite the mask over his mouth, I could see the smirk in his eyes. Likewise, I was fairly sure that my crimson face could be seen despite my mask. After a few seconds, during which I regained my composure, I looked at our consulting gynecologist and said, “Yeah, I think you gave my cervix a clean bill of health about six months ago. I'm flattered I was so memorable.”<br /><br />So, that was the end of that! And last week, as I lay there on the exam table waiting for my new, and hopefully more tactful, gynecologist to walk in, I crossed my fingers in the hopes that the visit would go seamlessly, and in the very least, without a syncopal episode.<br /><br />Then.<br /><br />In walked perhaps the best looking gynecologist on the planet. Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes, chiseled face, medium/muscular build. NOT the middle aged, mormon, paternal dork with 9 children I was hoping for. For the love of crotches, this guy shouldn't BE a gynecologist, he should PLAY one on TV.<br /><br />Me and my vagina just don’t have very good luck with gynecologists.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />1. Wazoo – one of the many non-medical words for vagina that I consider an acceptable substitution. This one came from a friend of mine who, incidentally, is a gynecologist. His daughter had to stand up in front of her kindergarten class to say what her parents did for a living…when it was her turn, she stood up and said: “My mommy stays at home to take care of my sister while my daddy looks at bellies and wazoos all day long.” Needless to say, her dad had the most impressive profession out of all her classmates’ parents.</span></span><span style=""><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span> </span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-19888759617491801832007-04-21T07:25:00.001-07:002008-12-08T14:31:54.519-08:00Sweet, sweet nothings via text message...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/Rizn9pmr4kI/AAAAAAAAAK4/rEJSzfbWy8w/s1600-h/chinastreetvendor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 265px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/Rizn9pmr4kI/AAAAAAAAAK4/rEJSzfbWy8w/s320/chinastreetvendor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056671527956374082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">T</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">he</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> Brit’s away on business yet again…this time in Korea and China.<span style=""> </span>Given his tendency to partake of the varied gastronomic wonders that are sold by street vendors (wonders like deep, fried, breaded bee larva and mystery meat product on a stick) it’s not surprising that the text message from him after his first night in Shanghai came with news of an entire night spent perched atop a toilet in a fecal meltdown.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />I got to play doctor via text message and give him a few recommendations for medications. Mostly he needs to just stay hydrated.<span style=""> </span>(And beer doesn’t count if you’re reading this, mi Gringito Lindo!!!) Then I told him that I love him and miss him and hope he feels better soon.<span style=""> </span><br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">To which he replied:<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote><span style="font-family:arial;">As much as I like seeing new places, I would much rather be with you.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></blockquote><br /></span></span><span><span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RizoNJmr4lI/AAAAAAAAALA/tolt1evgG5k/s1600-h/bund-sightseeing-tunnel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 187px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RizoNJmr4lI/AAAAAAAAALA/tolt1evgG5k/s320/bund-sightseeing-tunnel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056671794244346450" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Then a little later:<span style=""><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-family:arial;">Just took the bund tunnel.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It was in that Chinese film we saw about a year ago.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">All psychedelic lights.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Pretty cool.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Poo getting a little more solid.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></blockquote><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br />To which I replied:<span style=""> </span><br /><blockquote>Ahh...one of the many reasons I love you…you always say the right things!<span style=""> </span>XOXO<br /></blockquote></span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-66143586723536828342007-04-19T18:30:00.000-07:002007-04-23T10:05:14.859-07:00Ohhh, dear Peter, you're mediocre but I love you...<span style=""><span style="font-family:arial;">I was recently going through a stack of boxes searching for a particular Special Pan, my designated Cuban Flan Pan. Given my knack for organization, I found it right where anyone in their right mind would have put it…in the same box with an old set of markers (last used when I was approximately age 12) along with enough unopened orca-sized maxi pads to give the Hoover Dam a day off . Given my knack for labeling boxes only on their tops and my </span><i style="font-family: arial;">other</i><span style="font-family:arial;"> knack for then stacking them on top of each other, (I’m knacky, what can I say) I had to go through several boxes before I found what I was looking for. This explains how I stumbled upon the long forgotten box filled with a 15-year-old Ziggy doll collection and an anthology of my old journals, some of which date back to 1989! It was all there…from the heartbreak of not being allowed to shave my legs right through to the torture of being, like, so…<span style="font-style: italic;">totally</span> misunderstood! Imagine my glee upon uncovering this pubescent treasure! I was happier than a gonococcus setting up shop in a virgin vagina!<br /><br />And thus, I welcome you to the first installment of Teenage Turmoil. Join me as I microdissect the hormonally charged, emotionally misguided, synaptic misfirings that I managed to jot down using barely legible pink ink and deliberately bubbly letters. Today, we shall look back on my 13 year old feelings regarding sex and a boy named Peter…<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">March 10, 1991<br /><br />Dear Diary -<br /><br />Just last Friday was Miss Legs For Miles’ birthday sleepover party and since we stayed up til 1:30 AM gossiping and listening to music, I learned a lot of things that night. One thing is Miss LFM likes this one kid named Kevin. He’s kind of perverted and he’s not all that cute but he sort of likes her – at least we think he does! I didn’t know until that night and it was kind of a surprise. Anyways, more on Kevin later. </blockquote><br />Here we learn that apparently Miss Legs For Miles (who, incidentally, I am still very close friends with) (and who incidentally DOES have killer legs) (and who I, incidentally, resent slightly for that to this day) and I didn’t have very high standards. Kind of perverted?? Not that cute?? I mean, honestly, sounds like he could have picked his nose and eaten his boogers out by the tetherball courts and we still would have dug him.<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"><blockquote>I also found out some disgusting news about Tina and Mandy. Heidi was telling us that she went over to one of their houses and they were talking about they had had sex before! That is really gross. Miss LFM and I promised Heidi we wouldn’t say anything to them. </blockquote></span><br />Ahh…it is here that we see the manifestations of my parents’ many chit chats about the importance of abstinence. (And by “chit chats” I mean “stern, scary ditto presentations with schematics.”) Considering the fact that not a day passed by that I wasn’t reminded of the fiery pits of hell that awaited me should I engage in the unforgivable act of premarital sex, I pretty much thought a penis was akin to Satan with one eye. I got over that a few short years later. Nevertheless, I must say, if I ever have a daughter, I think I will start teaching her all about Satan The Firebreathing Penis when she’s about three.<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">Ok, now I guess I could get back to Kevin now. Kevin is this boy who hangs around with this other boy named Peter. Peter is also perverted and slightly immature but he likes me. </blockquote><br />Gosh. Doesn’t he sound dreamy? Sigh…<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">In fact he went out with Liz only to get closer to me. </blockquote><br />Ok. We should clarify something right here. “Going Out” when we were in middle school meant: exchanging sidelong glances at each other in Ms. Kheuler’s class, hanging out by each others’ lockers during the lunch break, and generally just standing around in awkward silence, kicking pebbles and staring at everyone but each other. Sometimes the guy in the relationship would let the girl wear his jacket…you know, so that all the other boy puppies would know that this particular tree had been peed on. So, in other words, Peter let Liz wear his jacket for a while. They TOTALLY dated. It was serious.<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"></span></span><blockquote><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">He’s always staring at me in English, Math and Social Studies, the three classes I have with him. He’s not really that cute but he’s not terribly ugly. He’s got really cute </span></span><s style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);">blue</s><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"> green eyes. </span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"></span><br />I love this part. Again, aiming low! He’s SO “not terribly ugly” that I haven’t even looked at him long enough to know his true eye color. I’d actually written "blue" and then gone in later with a green pen and written “green” over it!<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 51, 204);"><blockquote>He’s told Lydia that he likes me. I like him but I don’t want to show it but I do in a way. I don’t because I’m always telling Miss LFM that he’s a jerk and that I can’t stand him. The reason why I sort of do want to show it is because Miss LFM told him that I don’t care about him liking me when he asked what I think of him. And I think that might ruin how he likes me!! What should I do? </blockquote></span><br />Oh, the tortuous rapture that is teenage love! First, I didn’t really like him because he wasn’t “really that cute”…but then he beamed his baby </span><s style="font-family: arial;">blues</s><span style="font-family:arial;"> greens over at me in English class and he, like, TOTALLY swept me off my feet. Dude, I’m half proud of the fact that I wasn’t all about looks, but half disappointed that I was </span><i style="font-family: arial;">that</i><span style="font-family:arial;"> easy to win over at the unripened age of 13. (This noxious combination will prove to be to my detriment in future dating fiascos.)<br /><br />Stay tuned for next week’s installment to see if I </span><s style="font-family: arial;">get to wear this guy’s jacket</s><span style="font-family:arial;"> "go out" with this guy.</span> </span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-82676661146134497072007-04-18T06:00:00.000-07:002007-04-17T23:50:07.267-07:00Senseless<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Sometimes things happen that render you paralyzed with the horror of it all, speechless with its senselessness, dizzy with the Why of it, and nauseated with the thought that there may never be an answer.<span style=""> </span>When things of this variety come wheeled in on a gurney through the hospital emergency room doors, I have endogenous adrenaline to help override the otherwise innate desire within me to make sense of the situation.<span style=""> </span>When there is a patient with severe closed head injuries due to a high speed car crash and another patient next door with a pneumothorax, a long bone fracture and a blood alcohol level triple the legal limit, it simply doesn’t matter in the moment of their arrival that the drunk patient is the driver of the car that caused the accident.<span style=""> </span>The only thing that matters is timely and appropriate care.<span style=""> </span>That’s what I’ve been trained to do, and so I do it.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />When things of<a href="http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,266374,00.html"> this variety </a><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/17/us/20070417_SHOOTING_GRAPHIC.html">happen</a> in a small community of which I am not directly affiliated…there is no adrenaline, there is nothing for me to busy myself with, and I am allowed to sit, in stunned silence, to take it all in…and to wish, like the students and faculty at Virginia Tech and like the rest of the country, that things like this didn’t happen.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />If there’s anything I’ve come to appreciate in my line of work, it’s that life is fragile and tragically fickle…but the human soul and spirit can sometimes be unimaginably, outstandingly valiant and invincible.<span style=""> </span>I just wish it didn’t take tragedies like this to make the world realize that.</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-9180492163692763412007-04-17T06:00:00.000-07:002007-04-17T05:29:52.989-07:00Old habits are hard to break<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >My cell phone rings.<span style=""> </span>It’s Mamacusa.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Hey Ma!<span style=""> </span>What’s up?”<span style=""><br /><br /></span>“Nada, I just wanted to thank you for the lovely package full of gifts from Japan!!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Glad you like it! Were you surprised??”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“YES!”<span style=""><br /><br /></span>“You like how that works?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Do I like how <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span> works?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“The surprise! See how much of a surprise it was when the surprisER doesn’t call the potential surprisEE beforehand to tell them to expect a surprise in the mail???”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I always ruin surprises. I can’t help it…I just get so excited!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“I know. It’s fun to give presents.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Yeah, so anyway. When are you and The Brit coming up to see me next…I’ve got some GREAT presents for you…”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />[pause]<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“…I just did it again didn’t I?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Yep.”</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-80830054923984894372007-04-16T06:00:00.000-07:002007-04-17T14:26:07.451-07:00Our growing compendium of incidents involving automotive retardation...<span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:10;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Heretofore, it was thought, even proclaimed!, that I was a bad driver.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I think it bears documenting here and now, that I am not alone in my vehicular ineptitude.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">The Brit, using the precision and exactness acquired from years of pulling out of the same driveway every morning for five years, recently managed to scrape and then yank the rear bumper off of Vinja’s car with the front end of his Mini.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />This would be considered a momentary lapse in a previously impeccable driving record…except he’d, just months before, careened right into the driveway gate, thus successfully and permanently dislocating its several rusted joints.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />Prior to that, he’d destroyed the front bumper of our rental car while pulling out of the carport of our lodge in Namibia.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />Prior to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >that</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, he’d lurched headlong into a deer on the freeway.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />I’m not saying I don’t deserve being mocked for cracking my driver’s side rearview mirror while pulling out of a parking garage or for denting the passenger side of my car with the driver’s side rearview mirror of another car while attempting to parallel park on a hill…but I’m just saying…<br /><br />Take a bow with me, my dear Brit!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s a wonder either one of us manages to get out of the driveway most days. </span><span style=""> </span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-66186598812774422802007-04-13T07:00:00.000-07:002007-04-13T11:21:26.955-07:00The best of both worlds<span style=""><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >My usual week at the county hospital, a hospital I spend much of my time in as a surgical resident, involves a number of things that may seem overwhelming to one who might work a standard 9 to 5 office job (particularly when that office job rarely involves blood, pus or excrement of any kind). Things like…<br /><br />…a work day that starts around 5 AM.<br />…a work day that ends anywhere from 5 PM that same day to noon the day after.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><sup style="font-family: arial;">1</sup></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />…an average of 80 hours a week at work and four days off a month.<br />…a fair amount of sleep deprivation due to that which is listed above<br />…an even fairer amount of blood, pus, excrement (and a myriad of other bodily fluids for that matter).<br />…at least once a week, no less than one categorically drunken, drugged-out patient either spitting at me or, equally as charming, calling me a bitch.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><sup style="font-family: arial;">2</sup></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />…patient upon patient with bullet wound after bullet wound…with bullets that sometimes, oftentimes just by luck, have just grazed the skin…others that have penetrated through the sternum right into the left ventricle of the heart…still others that have miraculously managed to hit a rib anteriorly, ride it all the way posteriorly, and lodge themselves right by the spinal cord without any injury to any organ system whatsoever. Not surprisingly, the latter is the least common of the three listed scenarios. And sadly, there are infinitely more scenarios.<br />…swollen ankles from hours on end of standing in the operating room.<br />…ultimately, and what makes me do it, the satisfaction of diagnosing an operable disease, and performing the necessary procedure to take care of the patient (regardless of whether he or she spat at me or not). (And usually, even the spitters are grateful once the anesthesia has worn off.)<br /><br />It goes without saying that the job is somewhat demanding. And after three solid years of working 80 hours a week, I was very much looking forward to the “break” that a stint of research would give me. Last July I signed on for a two-year leave from my usual clinical schedule to do breast cancer research. Cancer, for reasons near and dear to my heart, is something I’ve had an interest in helping abolish since early on in my medical education. Surgery can be an effective cure, and it’s certainly very satisfying when it is…but oftentimes it’s not. So looking for the reasons for this and finding ways to anticipate and prevent them, is very exciting to be a part of. The breast cancer research community as a whole, a community that spans the entire globe, is at a very pivotal point right now…and participating in it all is fulfilling in a way that is much different from my usual day at the hospital.<br /><br />Plus! The added perks of a research job are things like…<br />…a work day that starts around 9 AM.<br />…a work day that ends anywhere from 5 PM to 7PM.<br />…an average of 40 hours a week, evenings and weekends off.<br />…a fair amount of sleep.<br />…absolutely no blood, pus, or excrement.<br />…a sheer lack of obscenities being screamed at me by patients<br />…no bullets<br />…ankles that do not protest when I attempt to zip up my boots!<br />…time to do other things…like visit friends and family, dance, and write this blog!<br /><br />This is temporary…as I’ll go back to my usual clinical schedule in June of 2008. And I suspect that by then, I’ll be ready to jump back in to the chaos of it all. Afterall, I already miss working closely with individual patients and I certainly miss operating. And, sometimes, strangely enough, being screamed at, spit at, or called something profane at 3 AM by a perfect stranger, is more awakening than a stiff cup of coffee!<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />1. Yes, this means some of my shifts, usually around one to two a week, hover around 30 hours long.<br />2. To which I usually reply, “That’s ‘Dr. Bitch’ to you, Sir.”</span></span><span style=""><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span> </span></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-49587631260387246672007-04-12T06:00:00.000-07:002007-04-11T23:59:25.402-07:00In which even MY high standards of vulgarity are trumped...<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >It’s not too often that I am NOT the most obnoxious person sitting at the dinner table, but I daresay I was recently, even if only temporarily, trumped…<br /><br />…and by a Brit!<span style=""> </span>Not <i>The</i> Brit of course, the pillar of politeness that he is, but <i>A</i> Brit nonetheless.<span style=""> </span>I should have known that if anyone were going to make me spray a Napa Valley syrah through my nasal passages, it would be this particular Brit.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />The Storyteller, one of <i>The</i> Brit’s close childhood friends (and, incidentally, the brother of <a href="http://nikinpos.blogspot.com/">one of my favorite bloggers</a>), blows through town every so often on the wings of a <a href="http://www.virgin-atlantic.com/en/us/index.jsp">Virgin</a>.<span style=""> </span>While mounted on said Virgin, he offers up the best “First Class Cart Tart” service (as he endearingly refers to it) at approximately 30,000 ft.<span style=""> </span>While dismounted, and safely at or around sea level, he offers some of the best gay company on this end of SF (and by “gay” I mean both “merry” and “homosexual”).<span style=""> </span>All of this simply goes to say that his brief visits don’t go a single minute without an entertaining story of some sort, all of which result in deep belly laughter and, ultimately, syrah through the nose.<span style=""> </span>I should just stop taking sips when he begins to speak, really.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />At dinner the other night, we stuffed ourselves silly with divine food and drink, all the while disturbing the peace with our raucous laughter.<span style=""> </span>As per usual.<span style=""> </span>Our dinner plates were cleared, just in time to spare me the embarrassment I would have suffered had I given in to my urges to lick up the remnants of my seared scallops and potato puree. Then, our attentive waiter handed us the dessert menu.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Room for dessert?” the waiter asked.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />The Storyteller’s response: “I doubt I could even fit so much as a cock in my mouth right now, no matter how much I might want to!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />I’m assuming the restaurant has stain remover for their white tablecloths.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Hope so.</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-68121352079814499882007-04-11T06:00:00.000-07:002007-04-11T06:57:01.407-07:00The kinds of things I think about while jogging at the outdoor track...<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Damn, I hate it when I forget my Ipod.<span style=""> </span>It’s SO boring to run without musical accompaniment…<br /><br />[several minutes of running in silence]<br /><br /><a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=sSbk9yQfMaE">I don’t think you ready…for this jelly…I don’t think you ready…for this jelly…</a><br /><br />Nope.<span style=""> </span>Just not the same without Beyonce.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Ooh!<span style=""> </span>That guy’s got a nice ass, lemme go run behind <span style="font-style: italic;">him.</span><span style=""><br /><br /></span>[slowly but surely change lanes to the innermost lane behind Beautiful Butt Boy]<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Crap.<span style=""> </span>He runs too fast.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Before I know it, he’ll come up from behind me and be looking at MY ass.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Which would NOT be good.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />As I’m fairly certain there’s a good amount of jiggling going on back there.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Which is WHY I’m running in the first place.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />God, why did you have to make cheese so delicious?<span style=""> </span><br /><br />So sinfully delicious???<span style=""> </span>You put crack in it, didn’t you?<span style=""> </span><br /><br />[slowly but surely change lanes to the outer lane where I started out]<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Mmmm.<span style=""> </span>Cheese.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Ok.<span style=""> </span>We’re here to focus.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Think about running….R-U-N-N-I-N-G.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Not smoked gouda.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Running.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Your <a href="http://lacubanagringa.blogspot.com/2007/02/in-which-i-whore-my-ass-out-for-100hour.html"><s>pear</s> <s>apple</s></a> smoked gouda butt is depending on it.<span style=""><br /><br /></span>I don’t think you ready…for this jelly…<br /><br />God, running is soooooooo boring.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Maybe if I pretend there’s a piece of cheese at the end of lap 5, I’ll get there fast--<br /><br />OUCH!<span style=""> </span>Diaphragm cramp!!<span style=""><br /><br /></span>Friggin’ smoked gouda.</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-42616490535061017432007-04-09T18:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:54.789-08:00No shits, no giggles<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Dear Editors of the Fine Publication that recently published the article<a href="http://www.keepmedia.com/pubs/ForeignPolicy/2007/01/11/2507862?&pbl=6"> "Was Castro Good for Cuba?"</a> -<br /><br />I sincerely thank you for publishing this piece, as it raises a number of important issues. These issues, for reasons personal to me, my Cuban parents and my Cuban grandparents, will always be a topic of discussion around our dinner table. I am privileged to be am</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >ong the first generation of our family born in the United States, and thus was able to approach the article with a bit more of an objective stance than the older members of my family. Even still, however, there were elements to the article which were difficult, if not absurdly impossible, to swallow.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Most glaringly, having a Spaniard defend the argument for "yes" introduced perhaps the single most damaging inaccuracy in the entire piece. While I can appreciate that a well-seasoned, widely read journalist and writer such as Ignacio Ramonet might be able to craft some intelligent reasons for such an argument after a few visits and so many hours of interviewing Castro, the argument for "yes" would have been far more powerful had it been made by a native Cuban who lives in Castro's Cuba today. At first I was puzzled by the choice of a non-Cuba</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >n author because, though freedom of speech and of the press are not amongst the liberties that the citizens of Cuba currently enjoy, I would imagine that Castro might make an exception for a press document that would eulogize him. I wasn't puzzled for long, though, as I realized that one would be hard-pressed to find a Cuban citizen, living among the economically and politically cachectic people of Cuba, who would sing the praises of a man who has allowed a once glorious country to crumble into heaps of rubble. Indeed, it is much easier to find someone who enjoys the liberties of a country in which he does not need to give up simple pleasures like toilet paper, steak, or the right to accumulate wealth. It is much easier to find someone who enjoys a medical system in which he does not need to keep the equivalent of $6 USD (which amo</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >unts to anywhere from 1/3 to 1/2 of one month's salary) stashed away for cab fair in the event of a medical emergency because one cannot depend on an ambulance. Yes, much easier to bring in Ignacio Ramonet…a Spanish author who does not even see the irony in the question that he, himself, posed in reference to all of the pro bono cataract surgery that Cuban surgeons are offering to the poor of other Latin American countries: Is seeing one's children and the landscape of one's homeland not a fundamental human right?? Yes, Mr. Ramonet, it</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > is. However, Cubans don't get to enjoy that right as they do not have a functional, much less a comfortable, transportation system in which to tour around their homeland. And even if they did, they couldn't afford to use it. And even if they could afford it, they're not allowed to stay in their own country's hotels, eat in their own country's restaurants, or bathe in some of their own country's beaches. So, while Cuban infants may indeed benefit from a lo</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >wer infant mortality rate, the trade-off is surviving to live a restricted, albeit educated, life on an inescapable prison island. To support this political and economic system, and furthermore, to argue that Castro has the support of the majority, requires all the intention and focused energy of a toddler who, in the throws of a temper tantrum, has his eyes clenched shut and his fingers jammed snugly into each external ear while humming loudly. Only then can the reality be sufficiently drowned out. It is frankly disappointing that an intelligent man like Mr. Ramonet subscribed to such techniques to arrive at his conclusions.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Despite the fact that the harsh realities of life in Cuba precluded the ability to find a Cuban author for the "yes" argument, the discussion did not suffer from a lack of impassi</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >oned opinions. It was a lively discussion, each author having facts and statistics of questionable validity to support his argument. As a physician who knows full well that one can scour the medical literature to find data and statistical evidence to back directly opposing treatment options for the very same medical malady, it is with a grain of salt that I take in each side's supporting arguments. However, no matter how many political prisoners and extrajudicial murders there have been or have not been, no matter how many uprisings have occurred or not occurred, no matter how much Cuba's average annual gross domestic product has grown or not grown…there are at least a few simple truths, all of which rise above the distraction created by the data-wielding on each side of the argument, to suggest that when all is said and done, Castro has NOT been good for Cuba.<span style=""> </span><br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >And those simple truths are as follows:<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Castro assumed power four decades ago by means of violence, and has since never offered the people of Cuba an alternative option for leadership by any other party or any other leader.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />The people of Cuba want change. They want change so desperately, that thousands and thousands have risked, and continue to risk, their lives to escape to a better place.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />This is hardly a legacy to be proud of.<span style=""> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />And so we wait. Here in the States and, surely, in Cuba, we wait and we hope for a truly "Cuba Libre.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Sincerely,<br />LCG</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhrksuH7teI/AAAAAAAAAKo/sZiYwetYUCw/s1600-h/cubanjosemarti.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhrksuH7teI/AAAAAAAAAKo/sZiYwetYUCw/s400/cubanjosemarti.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5051601388996113890" border="0" /></a>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-2174973712728399982007-04-06T06:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:55.017-08:00Just for shits & giggles...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhZe2OH7tdI/AAAAAAAAAKg/Gvrvi9a1OZE/s1600-h/George_Bush.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 248px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhZe2OH7tdI/AAAAAAAAAKg/Gvrvi9a1OZE/s400/George_Bush.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050328317739906514" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >F</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >or </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >the five of you who follow along here semi-regularly, you know by now that I love a good laugh.<span style=""> </span>And, considering that I don’t mind when that laugh comes at even my own expense, it certainly doesn’t bother me when an appropriate opportunity presents itself to laugh at the expense of someone else.<span style=""> </span>Especially when that someone else is our country’s <s>fearless</s> fearful leader.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />So, with that, I give you this:<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/georgie.htm">George Bush slips and breaks his neck, back, leg…</a><br /><br />It went around via the email circuit last year some time (it's also a very popular screen saver, apparently), but I dug it up after his most recent impromptu press conference to have a go at him.<span style=""> </span>I’ve <s>wasted</s> spent so much time enjoying this…mostly because when he gets stuck, you can use your cursor to pick him up and fling him around or drag him through impossible crevices…it’s just gool ol’ fashioned fun!<span style=""> </span>Enjoy, if you haven’t already.<span style=""> </span>(And even if you have, it’s just as fun the second, third, fourth… time around.)</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-6733892674194717322007-04-05T07:00:00.000-07:002007-04-05T09:15:48.266-07:00The definition of High Maintenance<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I went with Dochechka to pick her Mamichki up from the airport last night.<span style=""> </span>Afterwards, the three of us went to dinner.<span style=""> </span>What ensued is not at all atypical of an evening out with Mamichki. She’s like a second mother to me, so I mean this in a very loving way: Mamichki can be a royal pain. And if Dochechka ever gets a bit grumpy or indecisive, I just remember that she got half her chromosomal matter and all of her mitochondrial matter from this woman…<br /><br />Mamichki looked fleetingly at the menu and then tossed it over by Dochechka, “You peek for me. I dun’t know vhat I vant.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Ok. Well, what do you feel like?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“I dun’t know. You peek.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Ok. You want the duck?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“No.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“You want the Ahi Tuna?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“No. I don’t vant ze fish.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Okaayyyy. The Shrimp?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“NO! I don’t vant ze FISH!<span style=""> </span>I had big fish vhen I was in ze Spain…you cean’t even imagine how big! No fish!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Well, shrimp isn’t really fish, but ok. How about the chicken?”<br /><br />“Fine. I vill have ze shrimp.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Are you sure? Is that what you want?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“No. I dun't know.”<span style=""><br /><br /></span>“Well, Mamichki, why don’t you look at the menu and pick something out for yourself.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Without looking at the menu, “Fine. I vill have ze chicken.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Good. Ok.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Mumbling under her breath, “But I dun’t really vant ze chicken…”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Mamichki, just look at the menu!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“No! You peek for me!! <span style=""> </span>Why you don’t order me same sing as vhat you get?”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Because I’m having the tuna.”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“I don’t VANT FISH!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“I KNOW!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Blissfully unaware the potential peril of entering the conversation, the waiter arrived, “Are you all just about ready for me to take your order?”<br /><br />“Yes," I said. <span style="">"</span>She’ll have the duck."<br /></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-17095987522693095822007-04-04T06:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:55.330-08:00When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >If you’d have told me back in high school that one of the best dates I’d ever go on would involve a protractor and the actual exercise of measuring out precise angles, I’d have peered at you from underneath my near unibrow, rolled my eyes at you (which you might have missed…my eyebrows were <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> unruly), and then said something classically indecipherable in a way that was, like, sooo totally pubescent.<span style=""> </span>Something along the lines of: “Pffft.”<span style=""> </span>This is Teenagerspeak for:<span style=""> </span>“Not only are you out of your friggin’ mind, but you’ve probably never heard of <a href="http://youtube.com/watch?v=K9li1w2sMyE">Color Me Badd</a>, both of which mean you have no idea what cool is.<span style=""> </span>Take your protractor and shove it.”<span style=""> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >And yet.<span style=""> </span>This is exactly true.<span style=""> </span>The Brit, in a way that is so endearingly engineering-y, gathered a moon chart, a protractor, and a google map of the city of SF and figured out the exact path that the full moon would take when it rose the other night.<span style=""> </span>This explains the sunset drive over the Golden Gate Bridge…the ascent through the gorgeous hills of the Marin Headlands nestled just behind the bridge…the staking out of The Perfect Spot to set up the camera and tripod…the waiting, waiting, waiting for twilight…the last minute scramble a little further up the hill to reposition the camera (our math had been a little off) …and last but not least…<br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >This…</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhNSG-H7tbI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/ctbdI5FX_p4/s1600-h/full+moon+ggb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhNSG-H7tbI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/ctbdI5FX_p4/s400/full+moon+ggb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049469886921422258" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhNSHOH7tcI/AAAAAAAAAKY/4sDnHn2Idbs/s1600-h/full+moon+ggb+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/RhNSHOH7tcI/AAAAAAAAAKY/4sDnHn2Idbs/s400/full+moon+ggb+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049469891216389570" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />Suck on THAT, teenage version of me!<span style=""> </span>(And for the record, you really should have done something about those brows back then.)<span style=""> </span>Who’s cool now, eh? (Hint: It's NOT Color Me Badd)<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />*Many thanks to The Brit for letting me display his lovely pictures!</span><br /></span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-43786220115035397542007-04-03T05:00:00.000-07:002007-04-03T05:11:12.296-07:00Paying it forward<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The lovely, superbly extraordinary Catherine…who wreaks the best kind of written havoc that can be wreaked over <a href="http://www.catherinedix.com/">On the Banks of the Rio Grande</a>…the kind that makes you feel like you should go out and wreak some actual havoc of your own…has awarded me a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Thinking Blogger Award</span>.<span style=""> </span>Wow!!!<span style=""> </span>Thanks Catherine!<span style=""> </span>Truly, I’m flattered and honored!<span style=""> </span>Woo hoo!<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Wait. I think I am!?!<span style=""> </span>It occurred to me, upon receipt of this award, that I had no idea what I’d just been awarded.<span style=""> </span>This got me<span style="font-style: italic;"> thinking</span>…Does it mean I make my 5 readers think <i>as</i> I blog?<span style=""> </span>Or does it actually signify a subtle hint that I should think <i>before</i> I blog? God, I hope it’s not the latter, because I rather enjoy posting about depthless, hollow things like clitoral stimulation during childbirth or like how my boyfriend is slowly trying to kill me with lethal auditory doses of movie scores and soundtracks. I’m thinking Catherine probably meant more of the former…mostly because I know that deep down, she truly enjoys my content.<span style=""> </span>And by “content”, I mean “boobs.”<span style=""> </span>(Which I’d like to go on the record and say that I am A-OKAY with.<span style=""> </span>Stare all you like, folks.<span style=""> </span>That’s what they’re there for.)<span style=""> </span><br /><br />Regardless of what it really all means, I’ll happily make a list of five bloggers who I like and who make me think (or, alternatively, who make laugh so hard that I sometimes momentarily lose urethral sphincter control and wet myself just a little).<span style=""> </span>(Both are equally admirable accomplishments in my mind.)<span style=""> </span>So, here goes:<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a href="http://nikinpos.blogspot.com/">Nicki in Positano</a> – Her brother, who is one of The Brit’s oldest pals, sent me the link to her blog late last year.<span style=""> </span>Through her candid tails of love, loss, motherhood, and life in Positano…she invited me in, not only to her world, but to the world of blogging.<span style=""> </span>I have yet to meet her, but judging by her blog and her brother (who is an absolute riot), she’s got to be a real scream!<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a href="http://waspgoddess.blogspot.com/">Waspgoddess</a> in England– This sassy lassy is the first official blog-amiga I made.<span style=""> </span>I like to think we’re homies that go way back now.<span style=""> </span>She’s one of my blog-peeps.<span style=""> </span>She’s funny, witty, and thoughtful.<span style=""> </span>Her writing spans from the whimsical and silly to the tear-jerking and philosophical.<span style=""> </span>She’s been a real gem to get to know!<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a href="http://zenfultouch.blogspot.com/">Mr. Poopie</a> in DC – Now THIS guy is one of my <span style="font-style: italic;">actual </span>peeps with whom I really do go waaaaaaaay back…back to the pimply, bushy eye-browed days of high school.<span style=""> </span>He’s probably one of the funniest guys I know, and perhaps one of the ONLY people I know who is decidedly more obnoxious than me.<span style=""> </span>Be sure to do some Kegel exercises to strengthen your urethral sphincter (or at least get yourself some Depends) before you head on over to this guy’s blog.<span style=""> </span>He’ll surely make you wee.<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a href="http://mustgethobby.blogspot.com/">Mist</a> in the Dirty South – Another blog-amiga made via the series of tubes that is the internet as we know it.<span style=""> </span>I first stumbled upon her blog when she’d just written "Indoor kids" on March 8th of this year (do you not have permalinks woman??), which JUST about killed me.<span style=""> </span>No seriously.<span style=""> </span>I was drinking really hot coffee when she made me snort with laughter. <span style=""> </span>(Ouch, by the way.)<span style=""> </span>After my 2<sup>nd </sup>degree nasal mucosal burns healed, I was left with the scars of deep, devoted blog-love.<span style=""> </span>She’s frank, she’s vulgar, she’s divine.<span style=""> </span><br /><br /><a href="http://saintvodkaofthemartini.blogspot.com/">Jay</a> in Canada – I happen to know she’s already received one of these, but there’s nothing in any made-up rule book that says I can’t give her one all over again.<span style=""> </span>I found this gem of a goat killer because she was one of the privileged few to get nominated for <a href="http://2007.bloggies.com/">this prestigious award</a>.<span style=""> </span>She’s fantastically witty, highly entertaining, and full of goaty goodness.<span style=""> </span>(Which, incidentally, is an essential part of a well-balanced breakfast.)<span style=""> </span><br /><br />So there are my favorite thinkers and jokers. <span style=""> </span>(I’ll leave it up to y’all whether to pass on the award or not.) Thanks again, Catherine…I’m so happy to count you amongst my few new blog-world friends!!<span style=""> </span>And thanks to all of you who share your world with me!</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-66128516269052757812007-04-02T07:21:00.000-07:002007-04-02T07:34:58.599-07:00Evidence that I've been hanging out with The Brit for far too long...<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The Brit and I had a weekend getaway this past weekend.<span style=""> </span>In celebration of the fact that this was the first time we’d both be in the same place for two consecutive weekend days since <a href="http://lacubanagringa.blogspot.com/2007/02/japan-is-fantastic-part-ni-thru.html">we were in Japan together</a>, we decided to head down the coast four hours to the town of San Simeon.<span style=""> </span>It’s a small coastal town just north of Cambria (which is, incidentally, a waaaay cuter coastal town), just west of Paso Robles (where there is wine tasting that rivals that of Napa &amp; Sonoma), and just minutes away from Hearst Castle (where I’d never been).<span style=""> </span>Yep.<span style=""> </span>We had BIG plans.<span style=""> </span>Plans involving sleeping for shameful amounts of time and then hanging around in bed until we absolutely had to go out (probably when one of us got hungry).<span style=""> </span>With the exception of one to two hours which we’d planned to relegate to eating and wine tasting, the goal was basically to see how much we could accomplish in our underwear.<span style=""> </span>(And if wine tasting were an experience that could be delivered via room service, I daresay we’d have ordered it.<span style=""> </span>That’s how serious we were about this goal.)<span style=""> </span><br /><br />We set out for the four-hour drive a bit later than planned on Friday evening.<span style=""> </span>And nearly the entire drive down, The Brit tortured me with his “most frequently played” list on his Ipod (for which his car “conveniently” has a plug-in).<span style=""> </span>Now, if you know<a href="http://lacubanagringa.blogspot.com/2007/01/brit-has-died-and-gone-to-heaven.html"> this much</a> about The Brit, then you know what I mean by torture.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />What actually transpired is still a bit hazy, but I believe that after about two solid hours of movie score after movie soundtrack (most of which was John Williams’ ET, Star Wars, Indiana Jones…) I finally had a grand mal seizure and then remained in a dazed post-ictal state for the rest of the trip down.<span style=""> </span>When we finally got to the hotel in San Simeon, it was almost midnight and some good, solid sleep (sans Ipod) was much needed.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />We hit the sack and a few brief, blissfully silent moments later, our next-door neighbors turned on their TV (to a volume of 11 on a scale of 10) and then proceeded to go at it like a couple of sweaty baboons in heat…<br /><br />“Grunt!!<span style=""> </span>Grunt!! GRUNNNNNNNT!!!!!!!!!”<span style=""> </span>he’d grunt.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Shriek!!<span style=""> </span>Shriek!!<span style=""> </span>SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!!!!!!!” she’d shriek.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Blare!!<span style=""> </span>Blare!!<span style=""> </span>BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!!!” the TV would blare.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“GRUNT!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“SHRIEK!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“BLARE!!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“GRUNT!!!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“SHRIEEEEEEEEK!!!!! Shriek!<span style=""> </span>Shrie—”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“BLARE!!!!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Grunt!!!!<span style=""> </span>GODDAMMIT, GRUUUUUUUNNNNNNNTTT!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Shriek!!!!<span style=""> </span>OHMYGOD, SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!”<span style=""> </span><br /><br />This went on.<span style=""> </span>And on.<span style=""> </span>And on.<span style=""> </span>But it only took a few minutes of listening to this pornographic symphony to put my finger on exactly what we were listening to.<span style=""> </span>I was sure of it.<span style=""> </span><br /><br />“Hey, Brit, isn’t that The Last of the Mohicans they’re watching?”</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-613714674265209788.post-31350908826177367632007-03-30T17:00:00.000-07:002008-12-08T14:31:55.476-08:00Mama's got a brand new rack, part deux<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Below is a photograph of <a href="http://zenfultouch.blogspot.com/2007/03/la-cubana-gringa.html">the sweet rolls that Mr. Poopie mentioned</a> in his post about our brief visit during my stay in the DC area earlier this week. I thought you might want to see them. The sweet rolls. Of course.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/Rg2lb0iZrQI/AAAAAAAAAKI/uwBnLPfAF2Q/s1600-h/IMG_1807b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_jMC2HtJ3Ymw/Rg2lb0iZrQI/AAAAAAAAAKI/uwBnLPfAF2Q/s400/IMG_1807b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5047872654730177794" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Don’t they look delicious?</span>La Cubana Gringahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02771407637760725599noreply@blogger.com6